Longing
by LokisonStarchilde
Summary: Loki POV, angst, death, NOT A ROMANCE.


It was raining, again. In fact, he couldn't remember the time when it didn't rain. He stood outside, in the garden, surrounded by all the beauty and splendor. Yet, all it held now was shades of grey. He stared up into the sky, arms opened, as if waiting for something to fall into them. Eyes closed, grand emerald cape billowing behind him. He sighed heavily, raven black hair stuck to his wet skin. Then he looked down, the site of the ground before him made him sick. An obvious, rectangle cut made there, with a grand head stone at the far end. An even stranger feeling crawled into his gut, confusion contorting his flawless face. He had always thought it would be funny; Death. So, why, when he looked upon this grave, did he not laugh? Of all the time he had spent, fueling his hate, giving or making up reasons TO hate, it felt all in vain now. What was it for? Did he ever truly hate? Or was it an excuse to take out misplaced anger? It didn't matter now. The one object of all his hate, misplaced or not, of all his love, unsure and fragile, was gone. He placed one elegant hand over his heart, contemplating this pain he now felt. Regret? He wasn't sure if he COULD fell regret. No, it was something else. He could place it if he wanted to, but didn't want to admit it to himself or anyone else. He suddenly laughed; soft, uneasy. He dropped to his knees, upon the grave, and ran his other hand over the wet grass there.

"Come now, Brother." He whispered, "You have never been one for tricks. It doesn't suit you." He was smiling, sweet yet aching.

A sudden tightness caught his throat, and he choked, anxiety gripping his chest. What was this? He tried to swallow, but it only became worse. His eyes felt hot, brimming with tears. He placed both his hands upon the ground, staring at the contrast of snow white, milky skin on lush green. Oddly, he was still smiling.

"Brother this isn't funny." He said to the ground, "I don't like this game."

He focused on just breathing; recomposing himself, telling himself that he didn't feel anything. He thought it was working, he thought he was winning. After several minutes, he leaned back unto his knees and looked at the stone before him. That had been a huge mistake. His eyes first laid on the name, carved in the center of the stone, filled in with gold:

_THOR, Son of Odin _

A startled cry, laced with agony, escaped his throat and his composure collapsed completely. He clutched at himself, rapping his slender arms around his own waist, wailing in pain and sorrow. His body began to shake, from the chill of the downpour and his crying. He simply fell upon the grave, burrowing his face in his arms, in a faint effort to stifle his cries. A flash of a memory came to his mind; brilliant blue eyes, wide and laughing, a big grin, golden hair, strong arms holding him in a friendly gesture, a hug. He didn't even bother to cover his face anymore. He screamed at the sky, all agony for the universe to see, arms splayed out again in surrender.

"WHY?" His voice was shaking, but loud. He looked at the ground again and began to pound it with his fists.

"I hate you! HATE YOU!" He wailed again, "STOP IT! BROTHER! I don't like this trick! I don't want to play this game any MORE!"

He faintly felt and heard some of his fingers break, the ground winning this fight. It didn't stop him, not even when he saw blood. He began clawing instead, shaking more fiercely, in a rage now.

"Come back!" He called, "I want you back. DAMMIT! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!"

His eyes wide with craze, tears and rain blending into one across his cheeks. He felt that unnamed emotion again, knowing well what it was, and it ate him alive. There were more now, too, swirling and mixing all together. Fear glowed brightest, holding unto the other more hurtful feelings of regret and longing. Others in the background seemed to taunt him; abandonment, rage, and even jealousy. He was jealous that his Brother had taken something from him, yet again. He should be the one in the ground, and he knew it. He stopped clawing, stopped moving and crying, he just breathed. Blood laced fingernail marks ran all across the grave now, ruining its beauty. He suddenly relaxed, as if all the crying had actually helped, but now the pain of his injured hands registered and he winced.


End file.
